


Can't Catch a Break

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 04:54:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3637488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: RootxShaw prompt- Established relationship. The last couple weeks Root and Shaw haven't had any free time alone because of missions from the Machine, and they both are getting frustrated, especially Shaw. The Machine sends them a new number that Root and Shaw have to surveil at a very nice restaurant, however the number was never real and they have a reservation and everything is paid for. Turns out the Machine wanted its two favorite operatives to have a nice date and a relaxing night together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Catch a Break

"Root, nine o’clock!" At Sameen Shaw’s words, Root Groves turns to her left, instantly ducking as a man swings at her. She takes out his legs easily, and he falls to the ground with a heavy thud. A few, quick punches later, and he is down for the count. Standing once more, she flips her hair out of her face, raising her guns as two men run at her with vicious snarls. Two shots, and they both fall dead to the ground. Looking past them, a small smile comes to her face as she watches Shaw in hand-to-hand combat with a man nearly twice her size. After a quick struggle, she maneuvers around him, jumping to his back. Wrapping her arm around his neck, she squeezes tight. He gags, groping at her arm, but she doesn’t let go. Finally, he passes out, and Shaw drops him on the dingy alley floor. _That’s my girl,_  Root thinks, walking forward, watching as to not step on any bodies- alive or dead. Sameen’s breathing is slightly labored as she brushes herself off.

"Was that the last of them?" Root asks, stopping just before Shaw. After scanning a moment, Sameen nods.

"Yeah, we’re clear."

” _Finally_ ,” Root says, letting out a satisfied sigh. “We haven’t had a second’s downtime in what, two weeks?”

"I think it’s been three," Shaw replies, starting to walk out of the alleyway. "I could go for a burger," she tells Root as her stomach growls. Root looks at her with a nod that says they are on the same page.

"You may have to hold off on that one," Harold’s voice comes through on their earpieces. "Another number just came in."

* * *

 

” _Now_?” Shaw fumes, eyes widening with anger. “Who could be in danger at four a.m. on a  _Tuesday_?”

"Apparently…" There is speedy typing. "A Julia Barbara." Shaw groans.

"And this  _Julia Barbara_  can’t wait at  _all_?”

"Well, she  _could_ ,” Harold replies with slight annoyance. “And she  _could_  die in the process.” Shaw purses her lips, silently seething.  _He knows I can’t take that chance, and he’s using it against me._

"What’s the address," she spits at last.

"187 Baker’s Street," Harold responds, the line going dead just after his words.

"I’m getting real tired of being everyone’s knight in shining armor," Shaw grumbles, shoving her hands in her pockets. The night brings a chill with it that the day before had forgotten.

"I know," Root replies, a glint in her eyes that hints at foreplay. "I thought I had you on reserve." Shaw lets out a cruel laugh, walking forward.

"You can take care of yourself, princess," she replies snappily, to which Root gives her a half smile, the rest of it being concealed.

"I could always use a little help now and  _then_ ,” Shaw’s face tightens at the suggestive tone in Root’s voice, and she’s glad at how dark the street is. Rolling her eyes, flustered, she picks up her pace, wanting to get away from the conversation- get away from these numbers.  _What’s going on anyway?_  She thinks to herself.  _Everyone decide March is national kill your friends and enemies month?_  Shaking her head distastefully, she continues to walk, feeling Root’s arm brush against hers from time to time.

________________\ If Your Number’s Up /_______________

At nearly quarter to five, Root and Shaw finally make it to the address. Shaw sticks out her hand, stopping Root in her tracks, eyes fixed on a black figure walking down the sidewalk. Moving her hand slowly, she slides it up Root’s back until it is on her shoulder. Root, not understanding what she’s doing, feels a tingle run down her spine. In a whisper, she says, “Sameen, what are you-“

Shaw grips her shoulder tight, causing her to stop. Slowly still, each movement fluid, she comes to a crouch, pulling Root with her. At this angle, they are concealed by a row of shrubbery. Silently, Shaw points forward at the figure. It multiplies, one turning to three, all silhouettes in the early morning’s dark. Their shoes crunch down the uneven sidewalk, and within the minute, three pairs of tan work boots walk past them, coming across the exact spot they were standing moments ago. The three walk up the small pathway at the side of the row home, jumping its small chain link fence with ease. They come up to 187, shimmy the lock, then slip inside. Shaw moves from the bushes, following in a low crouch, gun drawn. Root is right behind, and they walk through the open door without a noise, instantly hearing heavy footsteps milling throughout the house. From upstairs, a light turns on.

Root and Shaw nod to each other, walking up the stairs, heels barely making a tap. At the top of the staircase, Shaw sees one of the figures walk into the illuminated room. A woman screams. No longer worried about silence, Root and Shaw run forward.

"Where is it?!" The man yells, gun aimed at a woman at her room’s window. She has curly, orange hair and wide, hazel eyes drawn up in fear.

"I-I don’t know," she stammers, pressing herself against the wall.

"The  _hell_  you don’t!” The man spits savagely. “I want my fucking  _money_!”

"I don’t have any money!" The woman screams back at him, fear in her every word. The man releases the safety from his weapon and she cringes back further.

"Where’s your husband then?" He demands. Her lips quivers as she answers.

"He- he left me. Him and- and s-some blonde caught a p-p-plane to Mi-Miami three d-d- _days_  ago!”

"Bull  _shit_!” He screams at her, rushing forward. He grabs a fist full of her hair, pulling it hard, and she cries out. He brings the barrel of the gun to her temple, and she winces at its icy touch.

"I’m telling the truth!" She screams back even though he is only inches away. From the next room over, a baby begins to cry. Shaw sends Root a quick look that says _‘I’ve got this covered._ ' Nodding, Root tip toes back down the dark corridor, opening the door adjacent to the other room. Swallowing, Shaw rolls herself around the corner, gun aimed at the man's head.

"I wouldn’t do that if I were you," Shaw tells him calmly, and he looks up, green eyes widening behind a black ski mask. "Because that would be one of the worst choices you have."

"And what choices  _do_  I have?” He sneers back incredulously, eyes knowing her has the upper hand.  _Or so he thinks._

"Three." She responds icily.

"And they are?"

"One, you put the gun down, I tell you where Jim and his blonde friend are, and we all part ways without a grudge. Two," she flicks the safety off of her own weapon. "You go to pull that trigger and I put two in your crown before you can." She takes a step forward. "Or three, I just  _shoot_  you.” His eyes flicker with a moment of fear.

"You wouldn’t do that," he spits. "Because then she’d be  _dead_.” He presses the gun into her skin, and Julia stifles a shriek.

"Honestly," she says, voice conversational. Then to Julia, "And no offense to you- but honestly, I could care  _less_  if she walks out of here or not.” The man’s arrogance falters at her words, each syllable hitting him harder than the last. “I’m a sociopath that wants nothing more than to just go to  _bed_. So, who lives or dies in this room is up to you. Either way, it doesn’t matter to me because I won’t be one of the dead ones.” His gun trembles, and after a moment, he speaks again, voice slightly shaking.

"You know where Jim is?" He asks. Shaw nods with cold eyes. "And if I put this gun down, you’ll tell me, and you won’t kill me?" Again, Shaw nods. After a moment more, he shoves the weapon into his wasteband, letting go of Julia. Instantly, she scampers away from him, throwing herself clear over the bed. Shaw lowers her gun- to his knees.

"Pop! Pop!" A bullet to each knee and he falls to the ground, swearing in agony.

"You said you weren’t gonna  _shoot_  me!” He whines, rolling on the ground painfully, blood splattering to the wooden floor. Coming over to him, she takes his gun, stowing it away in her own waste band.

” _No_ ,” she replies in a condescending tone. “I said I wouldn’t  _kill_  you. You’re not dead.” Walking over to Julia, she helps her to a shaky stand, then walks her to the door.

"My baby!" Julia exclaims, tears in her eyes. "Is she okay?"

"Wait here," Shaw replies without an answer. Dialing up on her phone, she waits for the pickup.

"I’m a little busy.." The voice of John Reese comes off impatient, and there are sounds of a fight coming from his end of the line.

"Well," Shaw replies, voice low, "when you are done being  _busy_ , you have three burglars to arrest at 187 on Baker’s Street.” John sighs.

"Alright, give me ten." With a small smirk, she hangs up, then comes back to Julia. Hearing footsteps on the staircase, she walks over to the banister.

"Marty, you okay?" One calls up in a deep, burly voice. Shaw shoots them both with ease, and they barrel down the steps screaming bloody murder. Turning back to Julia, she sees the suppressible shock on her face, fingers trembling as they cling to her shirt front with fear.

"Are you some- some sort of hit man?" Julia asks, now fearing the woman that saved her life moments ago. Shaw shakes her head, taking Julia’s arm and pulling her frozen form down the hall.

"Right place, right time, right weapons," Shaw tells her, stopping just before the nursery door.

"Is my baby okay?" Julia asks once more, not hearing any crying.

 _Depends on whether Root handles a kid or a silencer better,_  Shaw thinks to herself, but doesn’t voice the words. Pressing against the wall, she knocks on the closed door.

"Root, don’t shoot me, I’m coming in." With that, she pushes in the door, bringing Julia with her. Instantly, Julia flicks on a light, bathing the soft purple room in its glow. Little toys are scattered all around, a changing station and crib on the left side of the room. Nestled into the far right corner is a beige rocking chair.  _In it? Root._

Shaw looks at her, holding the small child- _maybe a year old?-_  in her arms, swaying back and forth in the chair. Her face is peaceful and soft. Looking down slightly, Shaw see’s Root’s gun resting on the ottoman. Peering up from the child, Root sends a warm smile Shaw’s way, then stands. She begins to walk forward, but Julia runs to her instead, sweeping her daughter up into her arms.

"Thank you. Thank you," she says to Root, eyes closed tight as she holds her child close. Root, stowing away her gun, gives Julia a kind look.

"You have a beautiful daughter," she says, and Julia smiles wide.

Root leaves her to be with her child, walking over to Shaw with a smirk.

"You handled  _that_  well,” Shaw comments, looking at their number as she whispers comfort to the baby.

"I  _was_  a nanny once,” she reminds Shaw, brushing past her as she heads out the door. Shaking her head with a smile, Shaw follows, coming down the stairs and stepping around the other two perpetrators.

As they walk out the front door, a siren wails, and a police car skids to a halt before them. A second later, John emerges from the driver’s side- Fusco getting out angrily from the passenger.

"You’re gonna get us in trouble one of these days," he grumbles, pulling his coat collar up on his neck. His voice is tired, giving him an extra edge. "Keep driving like a lunatic." John sends a slightly annoyed glance his way, then walks forward to Shaw and Root.

"Only three?" He asks, peering past them and into the dark house. The question doesn’t expect an answer. "I’ll call it in. Get some other people on it; you two look like you could use some sleep."

"Can’t argue with that," Shaw replies, looking at the police car, lights still casting beams of red, white, and blue to all sides.

"Lionel?" John calls, and he grudgingly trudges up to meet them. "Will you house sit while I take them home?" He asks, head jerking to the ladies on his left.

"Why the hell do  _they_  get ta leave?” He fumes. “You  _made_  this mess,” Fusco says, pointing an accusatory finger at Shaw. “ _You_  should stay to help clean it up.”

"Can’t," Shaw says with little sympathy. "That would be tampering with a crime scene. Sorry, Lionel, but my hands are tied." With a smirk, she walks over the the parked vehicle, yanking open the back door; Root gives Lionel a quaint smile before following. Anger and sleep deprivation boiling his veins, he grumbles, "I’ve already worked the double."

"Well, they’ve worked the  _triple_ ,” John counters, voice easy with a hint of hostility. “And  _then_  some.”

"Been working them  _that_  hard?” Fusco asks, dropping all frustration as he looks at the two. He sees Root leaning against the door, head cast down as she looks at Shaw. Shaw’s face is covered by the frame of the door, but he can see she is sitting with her feet out of the car. As the lights streak by, Fusco can see a light smile on Root’s face, her eyes vibrant as she laughs, and the outline of bags under her eyes. John takes a glance at them too before answering.

"I can’t tell you the last time they’ve really been home. To get changed, sure, but I don’t think they even  _sleep_  in their apartment half the time. Numbers have been flooding in non-stop for the past couple weeks. And they’ve taken 95 percent of the load.” Lionel sighs, eyes drifting back to the house.

"Make sure they get to tonight," is all he says, walking into the house. Turning away from him, John walks back to the police car, getting into the driver’s side. In the back, Root and Shaw sit next to each other, surprisingly quiet as exhaustion takes them over. Pulling it into drive, he turns, heading south, back to the thicker parts of the city.

As he drives, John peers into the rear view mirror periodically, watching the women in the back. He sees Shaw as her eyes fall further and further shut with each glace, until they are closed entirely. They pass over a bump, and she slumps to the side, head on Root’s shoulder. Root peers over at her with a smile, and she slides down to the far door of the police car, allowing Shaw to lay across the seat, head in Root’s lap. Shaw starts to snore lightly, only causing Root’s grin to grow wide and radiant. She plays with Shaw’s hair, twisting it and brushing it gently between her fingers, watching her face while she sleeps. With a tired sigh, Root tilts her head back, letting it rest on the back of the seat. She, too, feels her eyes drooping. With one last peek at the world around her, her eyes meet John’s in the mirror, and he smiles at her. Far too drained to even return it, she closes her eyes.

___________\ We’ll Find You /___________

Two hours. Two hours rest and they were called up again, another number waiting for protection. Shaw hadn’t even made it to the bedroom. Walking in, she crashed on the couch, down for the count. Root slept heavily in bed- until the phone call, of course.

"And how many hours have  _you_  slept this week, Harold?” Root asks, pulling on a pair of pants. Her voice is kind and considerate, even though she can feel her muscles ache.

"About two?" He replies with a small laugh. "But I have coffee, and plenty of energy. I sit in front of a computer screen for most of the time."

"Is this a number I could possibly see to on my own?" Looking over, she watches the rise and fall of Sameen’s chest on the couch, still not wanting to wake her.

"Probably, yes," he replies. "But it will take much more time."

"I have some time," she tells him, slipping on her jacket. She turns, zipping up her boots. When she comes back around, she sees Shaw, hands already working her hair into a ponytail.

"Whatever it is," she tells Root. "Count me in.” Changing quickly and silently, they leave.

"And who is it this time, Harold?" Shaw asks, putting her ear wig in.

"James… Barbara."

"James  _Barbara_?” Shaw asks skeptically as they walk down the stairs. “As in  _Jim_  Barbara? The husband of the woman we  _just_  saved?”

"Looks like we’ll be vacationing in Miami," Root says, finding Shaw’s hand and taking it; Shaw only rolls her eyes.

"Afraid not. He never made it there." From the other side of their ear wigs, Shaw and Root can hear rapid typing. "Oh, dear," he remarks with dread. "I think I know why we’ve had so many numbers."

"This guy?" Shaw asks, feeling the cold morning chill on her face as they walk down the street.

"Yes. He stole 2.3  _million_  dollars from the cartel over the last month with a woman named Diana Pierce.”

"Is she by any chance blonde?" Root asks, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, and as reported by the news…  _dead_.”

"So all these people- all these numbers and gang break ups- this is all for this  _one_  man?”

There is silence on the other end, and Shaw lets out a quick, haughty laugh.

"I sure hope he points a gun my way," Shaw says wickedly, "because I’d  _love_  a good reason to  _shoot_  the bastard.”

"You may just have your chance," Harold replies. "I’m sending you his photo now. If you head up Grant Street, you should run right into him. I need to run head off to work now. And, Miss. Shaw?"

"Yes, Harold?" Her tiredness makes her easily agitated.

"He’s not alone. Be careful. The both of you."

"You got it, Harry," Root says, clicking the earpiece off. Shaw does the same as the head down Grant, eyes scanning the hundreds of heads bobbing across the sidewalks. Once they make it to the corner, they halt, leaning against a brick building to wait. Shaw, looking down at her hand, starts to pull it out of Root’s. Root doesn’t let it go. Shooting eyes at her, she feels a surge of annoyance to see Root’s smug grin. Ripping her hand away, she stuffs it into her pocket, trying furiously to hide her chagrin.

Suddenly, a man shoves Root hard, and she falls to the ground, head hitting with a loud smack. Without a moment’s hesitation, Shaw throws her arm forward, catching him and spinning him to face her. In one swift movement, she decks him, and his knees buckle. He drops to the ground like a stone from a second story window. Turning back to Root, she crouches, putting a hand on her shoulder and elbow, helping her rise to her feet.

"Are you okay?" She demands, pushing brown hair from Root’s face, delicate hands pulling Root’s head forward so she can get a better look. Root winces at the quick movement, and Shaw tilts her head to the side more slowly. There is a small, shallow scrape across the right side of her temple, and Shaw inspects in thoroughly with stern eyes.

"I’m fine," Root replies, wiping gritty hands against her jeans. Her hand jerks back, feeling something hard deep in her flesh. Shaw’s eyes go to Root’s momentarily, then drop to her hand as she takes it up in her own two. Twisting it from side to side, she sees the glint of glass in the center of Root’s palm. Tentatively, Shaw pulls the small, green-tinted shred from her hand, then reaches into her back pocket, protruding a single band aid.

"This’ll have to do," she tells Root apologetically, sticking it on. Root smiles at her affectionately.

"Thank’s, Sweetie," Root says with a mixture of adoration and something else. Shaw looks up from Root’s hand, faces terribly close.  _If I could just-_

"There! He’s on the ground!" A man’s voice shouts from across the street. Root pulls away, turning her head away from Shaw.  _I swear_ , she broods. Eyes trailing to the other side of the street, she sees a beefy man rushing towards them, followed by three other, equally testosterone-packed men. Quickly shooting her glance to the man on the ground, jaw already bruising, Shaw’s shoulders drop in complete disbelief.

"Root," she says, something more than annoyance in her voice, and Root turns.  _James Barbara_. Widening her eyes at Shaw, Root smiles, then comes over to the man that pushed her to the ground. Taking one arm, she drags him to the nearest garbage alley. Shaw follows, hand on her concealed gun, watching the four men as they begin to charge. Like bulls, they are menacing and beastly, red the only thing in their animal eyes.

Ducking into the cover of the alley, Shaw can hear the sounds of trash bags crunching and garbage shifting. A moment later, Root  is at her side, guns at the ready. The men barrel around the corner, the first being shot in the kneecap twice before showing any sign of pain.  _What are these guys on?_ Shaw wonders to herself, amazed that he is still coming at them as if he never took the bullets. One of the others advances on Shaw, and she back hands him with the butt of her gun. There is a crunch, and blood trickles from his temple, but he does not look injured. Only enraged. They fight, they fight tooth and nail, firing weapons and having weapons fired back. Shaw takes a few, breath seizing blows to the sternum, and her lungs feel ready to collapse. Doubling over, she feels the rubber of a boot connect with the side of her face, and she is thrown back several feet. Her gun goes skittering into the alleyway, only stopping when it hits a chain link fence several feet away. The man advances, and Shaw feels her vision tunneling.  _Air air air_ , she thinks, trying to suck in a breath. _I need air._ She leans back on her hand and feels a bottle roll away from her fingertips. Without thinking a moment more, she picks it up, then scrambles to her feet. Her head is woozy, lungs still on fire, but she smacks the bottle against the brick wall, and it shatters into a sharp edge in her hands. The man looks at her and laughs.

” _Bullets_  cannot take me down,” he sneers in a voice that reminds Shaw of a Spanish terminator. “What makes you think that little glass  _toothpick_  will?”

"Everything’s worth a shot," she wheezes, jolting forward. She lands a deep cut into his side, embedding the glass past the wall of muscle and into the meat beneath. He takes in a sharp breath as Shaw turns it ninety degrees, watching the blood gush out. Using the bottle as a driving force, she pins him to the wall. One, two, three, four, fives blows to the face before he finally goes down, unconscious. Peering over, breathing finally regular, Shaw sees Root holding up her own. Closer to her, the other two men pillage through the trash bags in the hopes of finding James.

Silently, Shaw retrieves her gun, the aims it as she walks forward. “Looking for someone, gentlemen?” She asks snidely, and the first quickly draws his gun.

"Bang!" She shoots him between the eyes, and he drops with an earth quaking tremor. The second extends a long machete, edge tinted with old blood never washed off all the way. He swings at her, and she jumps back. Another swing, this time next to her face. She can feel the blade graze her skin, giving it the slightest burn. A third time he swings the long knife, and a third time Shaw dodges it. He steps forward. She steps back. Her back slams hard against the brick wall, and his eyes become devilishly lit. Raising the machete, he comes to bring it down a forth and final time.

"Pa-Pop!" He jerks to the right, knife clattering to the ground. Looking over, Shaw is relieved to see Root, gun still smoking. Once he’s down, she stows her weapon away, jogging briskly up to Shaw.

"Sameen, are you alright?" She asks, stopping just before her. Shaw takes in Root’s split lip and raw knuckles.

"I’m fine," she replies, hand running across her ear quickly.  _No blood_. Root nods, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. Shaw stands there, a statue.

” _Sam_?” Root asks, stooping her head down slightly to look into her eyes. “ _Sameen_?”

"I was waiting to see if we were going to get a call," Shaw says with a smirk, and Root smiles knowingly.

"Guess not," she replies, eyes glowing as she looks to Shaw. Shaw’s smirk deepens.

” _Good_ ,” she says, wrapping her arms around Root’s waist. Root feels her heart pick up, breath holding in her lungs as her nerves burn where Shaw’s arms are. She tugs her arm in, and Root gives no fight, stumbling over her own feet as she comes forward. “Finally some down time.”

Shaw angles herself forward, slowly pulling Root down slightly to meet her. Just as her lips brush Root’s, Root’s phone rings. Both freeze, neither wanting to move. It rings once. It rings twice.

"I should probably get that," Root whispers, hand sliding to her pocket.

"Or, we could wait," Shaw counters in a whisper herself, bringing her hand back to stop Root’s from slipping out the phone. Three, four, times, and still it rings. Finally, Root caves, grabbing the phone and bringing it to her ear. Shaw brings herself back, biting her bottom lip. She lets her tongue roll distastefully across her front teeth before looking away. Root drops her head, forehead resting against the side of Shaw’s as she listens. After a few moments, she hangs up.

"I thought Harold had work to do," Shaw fumes, still looking out onto the street.

"He does," Root replies, her breath tickling Shaw’s ear as she speaks. Her eyes are closed. "It wasn’t  _him_  who called.”  Shaw raises her eyebrows in understanding:  _The Machine._

"She has a number for us. Dinner reservation at Jean Georges, she said to dress for the occasion."

"What, blood smeared jeans not good enough for one of the highest rated restaurants in New York?" Shaw jokes.

"Not everyone can pull off vigilante G.I. Jane," Root teases, reluctantly pulling out of Shaw’s hold. "We have to be there in thirty minutes."

Groaning, Shaw begins to walk with lead feet back to the bright, sun touched street. “At least we’re getting a hot  _meal_  out of this one.”

___________\ Can’t Catch a Break /_____________

"Well don’t you both look  _divine_ ,” an over eager host greets Shaw and Root at the entrance, looking them up and down. Shaw has on a short, black dress met by strapped, matching heels. Her hair is pulled into a twisted bun, black lace net surrounding it. Root wears a dress similar in length, only light gray with no straps. Her heels are white wedges, covering everything save for her toes. She carries a small, white clutch with a silver rose doubling as its button. Her hair is down, catching the restaurant’s light magnificently.

"Do you have a reservation?"

"Maria Mitchel," Root informs him, and he types it into his computer. Smiling, he bows slightly, extending his arm around to unveil the restaurant.

"Enjoy."

Not a moment after they step past him, a woman in a waitress’s uniform walks them forward. Shaw, looking around, takes in the cream walls and stringy chandeliers. The windows span from the ceiling to the floor on all sides, and the carpet below her heels is luscious. The waitress brings them to a small table for two at the back corner of the room. The chair is a half circle around the back half of the table, soft and luxurious, its white color met by a matching table cloth. There is a single candle in the center of the round table, it’s thick exterior lightly illuminated by the fire within. Thanking the waitress, they both take their seats, looking around.

"So, where’s this number?" Shaw asks, leaning across the table.

"Not sure…" Root trails off, eyes slowly scanning each person in the vast room. Shaw watches her, involuntarily mesmerized. "… I don’t see him yet." Bringing her eyes back to Shaw’s, she gives her a quizzical look. "You okay?"

Shaw, coming out of her trance, gives a quick response. “Uh, yeah- yup.” Root smirks with intense eyes.

"What were you thinking about?"

"You just, uh-… you look really nice."  Root bows her head down, a slight pink filtering through her cheeks as she tries to conceal a smile.

A waitress comes to their table, placing food in front of them.

"We haven’t ordered anything yet," Shaw tells the woman, slightly confused. The woman’s brow furrows, and she looks to her notepad.

"The reservation had a pre-selected course." Shaw looks to Root, eyes asking if she knew. Root shrugs her shoulders. "It says it right here," the woman insists with a kind disposition. "It says Couple’s Course. Maria Mitchel. Is that not you?"

"It is," Root replies before Shaw can say anything. "My friend set this all up for us. She must have forgotten to mention this." The waitress nods, smile plastered to her face as she walks away. Shaw’s eyes look down to the large steak before her, hearing it sizzle with heat and smell like heaven. Grabbing her fork and knife, she is ready to hack away, yet it melts like butter at the slightest incision. Bringing a piece to her mouth, she chews, eyes fluttering shut. Root, from across the table gives a toothy grin.

"Is it good?" She asks, trying to keep the laugh out of her voice. Without opening her eyes, Shaw nods.

"Rich people know how to  _live_ ,” she says, swallowing, and Root shakes her head dotingly.

"I have something different," Root tells her, looking down at a plate of boneless chicken strips, showered in salad and bathed in dressing and vegetables. She, too, takes a bite, and she is taken aback at how wonderful such simple things can taste together. "Try this." Root scoots along the semicircle, stopping beside Shaw. Shaw gives her an odd look, but complies.  _Wow._

Looking back up to Root, she is about to praise her dish as well, but the words slide back to where they came from, leaving her mouth empty of words to say. Again, she can’t help but acknowledge how simply great Root looks.  _She looks like this always_ , Shaw thinks,  _and that’s what’s so awing about it._

"Are you  _sure_  you’re okay?” Root asks again, and again, Shaw nods.

"I’m starting to think our guy is a no show," Shaw says, looking anywhere but Root.

"Bummer," Root replies, "he’s missing out on a great time."

"Yeah," Shaw agrees, mind too focused to sensor her mouth, "But I don’t think he’d have as good of a time as us."

” _Oh?_ " Root asks, and Shaw closes her eyes tight, scrunching her face as she continues to look away from Root.  _Crap_. “And  _why’s_  that?”

"He uh, he wouldn’t you know, have anyone to talk to." She can tell Root sees right through the measly cover up, and kicks herself mentally. Root brings her mouth close to Shaw’s ear.

"Couldn’t agree more," she responds, then pulls away. Shaw turns back numbly to look at her plate, scarfing it down to avoid further conversation. She goes to grab a drink out of her glass, and feels a hand slip onto her leg, thumb gliding back and forth casually. Her breath breaks sharply, and she coughs, the drink being spit back into her cup. Her nerves are shocking in the spot just above her knee- just where Root’s hand so happens to be sitting. Out of the corner of her eye, Shaw sees Root’s triumphant smile, and she wipes her mouth heatedly, ears reddening.

"Done?" The waitress asks, seeing to empty plates. Shaw, mind to focused on one specific thing stays silent, and Root slowly comes to reply.

"Yes, thank you."

"I will take these out of your way, and this is desert!" Grabbing the plates, she steps back, and a man in a snappy vest places a rectangular plate of lava cake before them.

"Fancy," Shaw chokes out as they leave, and Root gives her leg a small squeeze.

” _Very_ ,” she says, taking a fork. Shaw eats in silence, nerves zapping at her like a live wire.

Root looks at her, knowing full well what is going through her mind, and uses all her self restraint to not chuckle.

 _Echo November Juliette Oscar Yankee India November Golf — Yankee Oscar._.. Root sits up straight, hearing the words play in her ear.  _Enjoying yourself?_

"Uh, yes. Yes." Root replies, looking over to Shaw with a spark in her eyes.

 _'The Machine?_ ' Shaw mouths, and Root nods, listening.

_Everything good?_

"Yes, very. Our number never-"

_No Number._

"What? But we’re-"

_No Number. Enjoying yourself?_

In a flash, Root sees it all clearly. Harold never called because it never notified him. She smiles wide, letting it illuminate her whole face.

_Payed for. Have fun._

"Than- Thank you," she stammers, too overcome with gratitude to speak.

"What is she saying?" Shaw whispers, curious.

Root waits for any other words, but none come. Looking down, she smiles, then looks over to Shaw. Removing her hand from her leg, she wraps her finger’s in Shaw’s, holding it firmly.

” _This_ ,” she says cunningly, “was an Intelligent Super Computer tricking two operatives into a night together.” Shaw raises her eyebrows in surprise.

” _Really_?” She asks, stumped. “Huh.”

Root leans her head on Shaw’s shoulder, letting her thoughts travel. She comes back when she feels Shaw shaking, realizing she’s silently laughing to herself.

"What is it?" She asks, lifting her head up to look Sameen in her dark eyes.

” _Crazy_ ,” she says, shaking her head. “Crazy thought but uh, looks like we got Her blessing.” Root smiles wide, overjoyed and excited beyond even her own belief.

Stealing a quick kiss, she replies, “Not crazy at all.”


End file.
